


(i think i made you up inside my head)

by pentaghastly



Series: iserill lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Stream of Consciousness, cullen is so madly in love it would be pathetic if it weren't so cute, poc elves >
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2786363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He holds her like this, holds each shattered bone in place like a cast, on the nights when she is too broken to move and he loves her too much to ask why. He holds her, and his fingers trace their way over the peaks and across the valleys of her skin, every previously undiscovered freckle a new city for him to conquer, every scar an irrevocable tear in the parchment of her flesh he longs to fix, but knows he never can. That is a power he does not possess.</p><p>Her skin is a map, and the map tells a story.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>(a collection of cullen/lavellan drabbles)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

>   
> _“But I love your feet_  
>  only because they walked  
>  upon the earth and upon  
>  the wind and upon the waters,  
>  until they found me.”  
>  -Pablo Neruda

\------------

Her skin is a map.

He holds her like this, holds each shattered bone in place like a cast, on the nights when she is too broken to move and he loves her too much to ask why. He holds her, and his fingers trace their way over the peaks and across the valleys of her skin, every previously undiscovered freckle a new city for him to conquer, every scar an irrevocable tear in the parchment of her flesh he longs to fix, but knows he never can. That is a power he does not possess.

But he _can_ kiss his way across each one, the scrape of his stubble drawing a soft giggle from her throat ( _and who would have thought the great Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, would be ticklish?_ ), so that they become nothing more than another part of her for him to love, although no less a sharp reminder of all the times he nearly lost her forever.

Her skin is a map, and the map tells a story.

Russet brown like the earth from which she came, it tells him of ancestors who made the forests their home, of a little girl who spent her life in the trees, where the sun left it’s mark in the slightly-darker spots that trail a path down her spine. He places a finger to each and every one, connects the dots like constellations. Her muscles relax at the ministrations of his fingers, stalling him for a moment - he is not used to his touch being one that soothes, having spent so much of his life a weapon. But there is trust in her silence, in the steady slowness of her breath, in the way her eyes remain fluttered shut, and so he continues, although the feeling of wonder does not leave his chest.

(She challenged him to count them, once, but much to her amusement he lost track at twenty, although she didn’t laugh much longer once fingers were quickly replaced by lips. He could not be blamed for his short attention span - he is a weak, weak man, and she is far too beautiful to not be kissed at every possible opportunity.)

His hands travel down her back and forward until they come to a familiar crease, a slash which trails its across her lower abdomen and they still, still as he remembers too much - _a routine scouting mission gone wrong, too many templars, no one to heal, her the only mage in the party, bleeding out faster than her horse could run, Cassandra yelling to fetch the surgeon, too much blood, too much_ \- but she is here, he reminds himself, alive and real, and sometimes he wonders where he would be if she were not. Not if she died, because he _knows_ where he would be then, knows all too well, but if she simply...were not.

He thinks he might know the answer to that too, and it is one he does not wish to face, not yet, not now. 

So he leans down and places a kiss to it - once, twice, three times just for good measure - and he continues on.

Upwards now, far up, over the peaks of her breasts and the hollow of her collarbone, up to the intricate patterns which adorn her face, her neck. The ones that made him nervous at first, made her eyes sharper, looking every bit the wild animal he had been told the Dalish were in the stories from his childhood, the beasts in the forest, the monsters in the shadows. But the lines curl at the edges of her sweet mouth as she smiles, crease around her eyes when she laughs, laughs with her whole being, and he wonders how he ever could have found them cold, sharp, when they are a part of her, and she is the purest thing in this decaying excuse of a world.

Her eyes flutter open then, finding his in an instant, and just as quickly he is lost.

For her eyes are an ocean, and in them he will drown forever.

If they are a colour, they are one that has no name, one that did not exist until she first came to the world and opened her eyes to the sun. If they are green, they are every leaf from every tree, every blade of grass, every glittering emerald but every bit more priceless. If they are blue, they are the blue of the deepest sea and the sky combined, of every orchid in Skyhold’s garden. If they are gold, they are every star in the sky, every ring on her finger, and he wonders absently if anyone before him has ever looked into them and got lost, spending the rest of eternity wandering about their depths - he questions whether the same would happen to him, and does not think he would mind.

“You’re staring again,” she teases, but he hears what lays beneath - he has heard it in her voice before, when she speaks of Leliana’s ‘intoxicating mystery’, of Vivienne’s ‘effortless grace’, of Josephine’s ‘bewitching charm’, has seen it when she ducks her face away each time his gaze lingers too long. So he kisses her cheek, her nose, her eyelids, the tips of each ear, until he hears a breathy laugh, feels her squirm slightly in his arms. He does not know if her her bones have shifted back into place, if the cuts beneath the surface of her skin have healed, and so he pulls her closer to him, as if he’s trying to fuse their bodies into one, as if he can take some of her pain and make it his own.

“Of course I am,” he mutters into her hair, breathing in her scent as if he is breathing in part of her - she smells like the earth after a rainstorm, like the bloom of the flowers on the first day of spring, like the smoke from a crackling fire in the chill of winter. It is a scent that is uniquely her, and he stores the memory away for the next time she is gone from him. “If I could spend every day of my life just staring at you, I would die a happy man.”

She pulls away from him then, so their noses just barely touch, and the red that stains her cheeks is the loveliest sight he thinks he has ever seen. They are still, for a moment, and the world falls still too, and in the hush of the darkness he wonders if this is it, if this is what it is supposed to be - if everything else in this world was simply an illusion, a glimmer of the fade, and they two are the only two pieces of reality. If that were the case, he thinks, he would not mind, so long as it meant they could spend every day just like this, her legs intertwined with his, her hand pressed against his cheek, her breath mingling with his own.

“Flatterer,” she whispers, but she kisses him anyways, and her kisses are soft, and her kisses are _life_.

Her lips are a fire, and he will gladly let them burn him alive.


	2. somewhere i have never travelled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"(i do not know what it is about you that closes_  
>  and opens;only something in me understands  
> the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)  
> nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands  
> \- e.e. cummings

He doesn’t understand how someone with so much power in the palm of their hand (and quite literally, too) can be so...small.

The first time they meet Cullen hardly pays attention to her - _female, elf, mage_ , he notes - but his head is still clouded with a haze of adrenaline, his vision blurred, his mind only half-aware of the world around him. She says she plans to close the breach, he takes her at her word (he has rarely been given reason to trust a mage, but it seems he has no other choice), and that is to be that.

Of course, as soon as you think you have reached the end, it turns out you have simply found your way to a new beginning.

The second time he sees her, by faded candle light in the Chantry in Haven - it is _then_ that he takes notice. The Herald of Andraste, they call her, a large title for anyone, and although he knows she is an elf he cannot help but imagine her as being larger-than-life, to tower over them all. The people already speak about her as if she is the thing of legends; he forgets himself, and pictures her to look like one as well.

And then she enters, and he thinks that _no_ , Cassandra must be mistaken, this cannot be the great savoir that their Maker has sent. She looks as if the responsibility alone will crush her under it’s weight; a slight breeze blows through the open door, and for a moment he worries it might sweep her off her feet. He almost voices his concern out loud as the warrior introduces her - “ _are we really going to do this, going to trust all of our fates in the hands of someone hardly larger than a child?”_ \- but before he can do so she is speaking, and it stops him in his tracks.

Her voice echoes throughout the room, larger than he expected, clear and true and far too...too _much_ , too loud and commanding to be coming from wisp of a body that stands before him. Her eyes are wide and filled with uncertainty but it does not waver, not even once; if her hands tremor the slightest bit it is countered by her voice, which remains as smooth as a shallow pond.

Cassandra smirks at him over the Herald’s shoulder, the mocking, self-righteous type that lets him know she had been expecting a protest from him all along, and, for now, he snaps his jaw shut.

But he continues to be astounded, in his own, silent way, at the size of her, or, more accurately, the _lack_ of her. Every time she dismounts her horse, every time she hops without abandon from rafters and railings, he winces, cannot help but think that this will be the time that her bones will shatter beneath her weight. She leaves Haven and he spends the rest of his days in constant worry - how can he not? She is, although unofficially, their leader, and without her, he would be -

_They_.

Without her, they would be lost.

He continues on like this, her victorious in battle after battle, him in constant astonishment as she leaves enemies in her wake, and it is only when she turns her back on him, runs off into the snow and the death and the flames, runs off to give her life for Haven, and he wonders when his awe turned into something else entirely.

\-------

Two months in Skyhold, and he does not understand how someone so small can have him so firmly under their spell.

It is not just him, he is well aware - they all follow behind her like mabari pups. Even Cassandra, for all her bluster, is utterly enraptured by the woman, cannot help but soften at every hint of a smile, cannot help but obey every order without question.

But he...he is not just captured.

He is _lost_.

She has slipped into his life and, without a word, has yanked it up from beneath his feet (not that his hold on it has ever been very firm to begin with). A single look and she can easily unclose him, a single word and he is nothing short of undone. It is shameful. It is dangerous. And it is, without a doubt, the single most miraculous thing he has ever encountered, and even if she is not the Herald of Andraste that the people claim her to be, he thinks that her simple existence on this earth is proof enough that the Maker must exist.

Is it blasphemy to think at much? He does not know, but surprises himself by finding that he does not care; hers is an altar that he will worship at without question.

In the darkest hours of the night Cullen wonders what it might be like to have her in his arms - she is so small, so _incredibly_ small, and he thinks that in his clumsy and unpractised hands she may finally break. But it does not stop him from imagining, imagining the way his arms would encircle her waist, the way her head would fit _just so_ into the crook of his neck, the patterns she would trace on his chest with tiny, delicate hands.

And he has seen the way she looks in her armour, seen the way her clothing clings to her as she walks the grounds of Skyhold - she is small, but there are curves to her as well, curves which show that she is in no way the child that her otherwise lithe figure suggests, where the sharp edges and taught muscle rounds out, soft, delicate, and he finds himself thinking of how it would be to kiss his way over each and every one of him. She would writhe beneath him, desperate, wanting, and he would have no choice but to give into her every demand -

(And he is weak, _so_ weak, and she is small but she is so much stronger than he could ever dream to be, and he knows that whatever she asks, that is what he will give. He does not stand a chance. He never has).

\-------

She tattoos his body with her lips, and he wonders how someone so small can so easily make him come undone.

Cullen has known women, women who lasted a night, women who lasted longer - but never women who could steal his breath with a smile, never women who could bring him to his knees with a word, never women who could change his world with a kiss. He has known women, but he does not think that he has _known_ a woman until he has known her.

He threads his fingers between hers, holds her hand within his own - and it is small, _so small_ , and yet his heart fits so perfectly in it's grasp.


	3. for an uncharted sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In that book which is my memory,  
> On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,  
> Appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’.”  
> \- Dante Alighieri

Lavellan has known fear.

She has known it well; they became acquainted long ago, during a childhood spent constantly running as fast as her feet could take her - “ _what chases us?_ ” she would ask, though if she ever received an answer she cannot remember it clear. But she has seen fear plain, seen it in the faces of the Keeper, her mother, her father, seen it in the shadows that have stalked her people for years, seen it in the shemlen the hunters would find by their camp, in their eyes the moment before an arrow was stuck in their heart.

Yes, she has known fear, but she has never _known_ fear until she knew him.

He smiles at her - it stops her heart as terror is want to do, but no, this is not her childhood companion, this is something else entirely and at the same time not at all; distant cousins, perhaps. She thinks that this is a feeling she does not mind so much, may not run from but run _towards_. It is odd, it is new, it is unnerving, but it is...good.

Their hands brush and she forgets her name; their eyes meet and she does not know where to place her next step, cannot remember how to put one foot in front of the other. Her words make him blush, stutter, glance away, and she wonders if his heart stops too, if it is fear of her that makes him shift his gaze or the other feeling, the one of which she cannot get enough. She want’s to ask him, wants to _know_ , wants to -

And then Haven is burning, and as she leaves him her old friend returns.

She is not afraid that death will find her - she fears it may find _him_.

She saves him, of course, and he saves her too; if she remembers a lingering kiss brushed against her forehead, remembers arms that held too tightly, remembers hands that shook as they tried desperately to keep her warm, she will blame it on the cold, call it an illusion from the haze cast by Falon’Din over her mind.

...

Skyhold is...different. There is safety in the towering stone walls, a safety she has never known. There had been a boy, a boy from her childhood, and - and _oh_ , she cannot remember his name, but she remembers his face. Soft and kind and gentle, he would leave berries by her bedside and hold her hand when she was scared; she cannot remember his name, but she remembers the cautionary tale which he became, to never stray too far from the camp alone, to never leave without a weapon, to never expect a camp of shemlen to be kind to a knife-ear who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

There is nowhere to stray in Skyhold. She walks as far as her feet will take her and finds herself at a stone wall; it surprises her, but there is comfort in confinement.

He - _Cullen_ \- is different, too. Molten gazes linger longer, touches are firmer, more deliberate, as if he is trying to make sure that she is real. Would he touch her in other ways? Or is he made uncomfortable by the sharp point of her ears, the intricate winding of her vallaslin, the glow of her slitted eyes - Bull told her once, piss-drunk and tongue even more loose than normal, that she reminded him of a cat, predatory and dangerous, and she wonders if Cullen might see her the same way, as a beast, exotic but not to be touched.

Does he, perhaps, like it?

Does he fantasize about her, feral and untamed? Does he think about her teeth piercing his flesh, claiming him as her own? _She_ certainly has, more often than she cares to admit; she wonders if he would listen to her commands like the good little Chantry boy he is and the thought alone is enough to bring her climax, frantic hands working under the covers of a bed that is far too large for the elf that she is.

For moments after, she is ashamed of herself. She thinks of her Keeper, her parents - what would they think, of their little girl lusting after a shem? But then she remembers his eyes, his hands, his _smile_ , the one that causes the faint scar in the corner of his mouth the curl up, and she thinks about what it would feel like to kiss him there, and the fluttering in her chest is evidence enough that she does not care.

Lavellan has known simple lust.

She knows that this...this is not it.

…

There have been men before.

Faceless names and nameless faces, she does not dwell on them often, but sometimes when she lies in her lover’s arms her mind wanders back to them - not in a longing way, but in curiosity. Where are they now? Are they happy? Are they in love? Delicate fingers run along strong arms that hold her close and she wonders at the contrast of her skin against his own. She is the colour of the earth and the trees and the night sky and he is the stars that stretch across her canvas; if she stares at the places where their flesh meets for long enough, the two begin to blur into one.

Are they happy? Are they in love? She looks and Cullen and he smiles, as blinding as if she has looked directly into the sun - she hopes that they are.

There have been men, men who lasted a night and then went on their way, but there have never been men who look at her the way that he does. She catches him, sometimes, staring with a look that she cannot identify, but it _breaks_ her, breaks her in the most beautiful of ways.

There have been men, but they have never made love to her in the way that he does. Each action is deliberate, the intent clear - he makes love to her for _her_ , takes his pleasure from her own, finds his release in the look on her face once she has been reduced to a trembling mess in his arms. It breaks her, _he_ breaks her, breaks her over and over and once he is done he puts her back together with a tenderness she did not know he could possess. He breaks her time and time again, and yet it never fails to take her breath away.

And Lavellan...Lavellan has known love.

She has loved her mother. Has loved her father, her Keeper, has loved her clan. She has, although it shocks her to admit as much, loved the Inquisition, loved each and every straggler they have managed to gather along the way, her allies-turned-family, from Cassandra’s quiet affection to Dorian’s dramatic (but never facetious) proclamations of undying loyalty. She has - _oh_ , she has known love, known it more than others, and perhaps has known it less than some.

He smiles at her, she smiles back, and they find each other somewhere in the middle - she has known love, and this...this is something else entirely, and yet at the same time not at all.

It scares her. 

She finds she does not mind.


	4. the love that moves the sun and other stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an anon on tumblr asked for Cullen and a pregnant Inquisitor, and who am I to deny my followers what they want? hopefully i did it justice :) xx

> "And did you get what  
>  you wanted from this life, even so?  
>  I did.  
>  And what did you want?  
>  To call myself beloved, to feel myself  
>  beloved on the earth.”  
>  \- Raymond Carver  
> 

He had not thought she could be more beautiful than she was when she fought.

Strong, chaotic, _wild_ \- he acted calm, unaffected, but the way that she moved, with a fluidity and grace that many mages raised in a Circle could not possess, often left him craving her touch with a desperation which he had only known for one other thing in his life. One addiction had been replaced by the other; he could not deny that he was much more satisfied with her running through his veins than he had ever felt with lyrium. He would sit in the training grounds and watch her for hours, the way she moved, the way she stalked her foe like predator and prey.

She was not simply a mage but magic itself, a force of nature the likes of which he had only heard of in storybooks as a child. A circle of fallen enemies and she in the middle, the image of vengeance itself - he lived his life on his knees before her, a pious servant at her altar. 

He had not thought she could be more beautiful than she was when she fought.

In the dark of her - _their_ \- quarters, he places a hand atop her rounded belly and cannot believe how foolish such a thought had been.

At first, there had been...fear. Not fear because he did not want it, but for the very opposite - fear because he wanted it too much, wanted it so much he found that he could not breathe. Fear because he knew he was not worthy; what did he know, about being a father? What could he give a child besides disappointment? What lessons could he teach his child besides weakness failure? How could he be a father when all he knew was killing and war and death?

 

He did not deserve this. He would fail them. He would fail _her_ , he would - 

She had seen it in his eyes, of course. It both terrified and awed him, the way that she could read him as clearly as if he were an open book.

“I have never met a man,” she spoke slowly, gently, as if she were afraid that he might break at her words. “More capable of loving that you. I have never met a man with more kindness in his heart. And I have _never_ met a man whom I would rather have this with than you. Surely you must know that by now, ma sa’lath.”

He had not known such a thing, had not even dreamed, but something in her face had told him not to argue, and so he kissed her until he could kiss her no more.

After that, he watched.

Watched the way that her hand fluttered without thought towards her abdomen whenever she stood idle too long, watched the way she smiled at him even when she had little reason to do so, watched the way she laughed fuller, brighter, the way she seemed to radiate joy, the way people began to flock to her like a beacon even more so than they had before, flock to her so that some of her light might rub off on them. 

He watched the way she spoke about it - shyly, at first, as if she were afraid to bore people with her excitement, and then something shifted; perhaps they had reassured her, perhaps she had stopped caring, he did not know. But it soon became her favourite topic of conversation - “ _They kicked today! A little fighter, just like Mummy and Daddy. You’d better watch out, Bull, I think your position as the toughest member of the Inquisition might be in jeopardy_.” - and there was a child-like wonder in her words, in the tone of her voice, that nearly stopped him in his tracks every time.

He watched the way her body grew along with the weeks, the way her clothes fit her tighter, the swell of her stomach - he watched, and he could not think of a time when he had loved her more.

“Are you still scared?” she had asked him, months after their initial conversation, uncertainty clear in her voice, and it was a question he had not expected. _Was_ he still scared? Had he ever been? “I will not be upset with you if you are - to be fair, I’m terrified.”

His eyes searched her own - whenever he could not find the answer for himself he could usually seek it out within their depths. Was he still scared? A hand, shaking, delicate, sought his out under the sheets in which they both lay, nimble fingers threading through his own, thick and clumsy and unsure, and, not for the first time, he found himself asking the Maker what he had done in this life to have earned such a gift. He did not deserve it, did not deserve _her_ \- but Andraste preserve him, he would try.

“Petrified,” came his eventual reply, the crooked smile that stretched across his face in jarring contrast to his words. “Completely petrified.”

A laugh, cut off quickly by a desperate kiss - the lost themselves in one another, and he did not thinks that she could be more beautiful than she was when in his arms.


	5. how much the heart can hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cullen, and letters he'll never send.

> _“I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.”_  
>  \- zelda fitzgerald

Herald,

A strange title which grows stranger still when it belongs to one who does not even believe in the Maker’s light. It would make this much easier if you did, make it easier to follow you, to _believe_ , if you were human, if you followed the Chant - it is not prejudice that guides me to think as much, but simple fact, and I will continue to think it even if the words are ones which I never dare to utter aloud. If you had any conviction that the title could be true, if you at least _pretended_ \- 

It does not do to dwell on it now. You have been sent, and I will continue to believe even if you will not.

I have no other choice. I suppose you know that feeling better than most.

For what it is worth, you bear the responsibility well. Not once have I seen your shoulders fall, your resolve waver, seen you even slightly falter. Whether it is true bravery or simply a very well put-on act I could not guess, but the fact remains that it is...admirable. Beyond that. Could I do what you have done, were it me in your position? Or would I cower in the corner, retreat to shadows, too afraid of failure to even try? I feel as though I might know the answer, as much as it pains me to admit it. 

Elf. 

Mage. 

I am sworn to your service, for as long as you shall have me.

(Or for as long as I am still myself).

\---

We…

We failed Haven.

_I_ failed - I failed _you_.

I am sorry.

That will not ever be enough, but if I continue to write it until the words have scarred themselves into my brain, perhaps I can pretend it might come close.

\---

Inquisitor,

(The title suits you much better than Herald, do you not agree? _Inquisitor_ , natural, as if you were born to fit the role. I suspect that you were).

Your talent for survival will never cease to amaze me. To experience just one of the things which you have and walk out, for the most part in one piece - exceptional luck. Perhaps a bit of skill as well, but for the most part, luck the likes of which has never been known before. But all of them? I know you continue to doubt the Maker’s existence, that the mark on your hand was a gift from a Tevinter magister turned darkspawn, but to deny that what you have been through, what you have _endured_ , is anything short of a miracle, must be blasphemy of the highest order.

Maker, elven Gods, whatever - _whomever_ \- it is the Qun believes in - it does not matter to me, not any longer. You have been blessed, and in return you have blessed us all. 

Maker’s breath, I am horrible at this, aren’t I? Blushing and stuttering and humiliating myself even in writing. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that I know you will never read these words, because, like the others, I will never send them.

And since I know that to be a fact, I may as well continue.

I do not know where we would be without you. I do not know where _I_ would be without you, and I do not wish to - a glimpse of it after Haven, of not being able to breathe, of not knowing where to place my next step, of not having a thought in my head besides the fact that I _lost_ you, that I _failed_ you, and that glimpse...that was enough for me to know that I never wanted to know the feeling again. 

Enough for me to know that have allowed myself far too close, have grown far too attached, that I will suffer this pain in silence until the end of my days and I will do so gladly, if it means I am permitted to bask in even a sliver of your light.

I want to...Maker, I _want_ to - but I do not even know what it is that I want to do (or, I do know, know far too well, and do not wish to admit it to myself. that seems to be the most likely of choices). Do I want to follow you into the unknown, your ever loyal general, standing faithfully at your back? Or would I rather stand at your side, friend, companion - something else entirely? Do I want to - but no, want is irrelevant, unimportant when I know what it is that I _need_ to do, and what I need to do is whatever it is you ask of me.

Weak. Horribly, pitifully weak, but you are strong enough for both of us. 

For _all_ of us.

\---

_I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry -_

_I failed you._

_Again._

_Please forgive me._

_(I will not blame you if you don’t)._

\--

Lavellan,

A pile of work the size of the mage’s tower sits in my office, and I cannot focus on a word.

It is entirely your fault.

You are supposed to be my boss, encouraging me to work, snapping at me for ignoring my duties, for daydreaming and fantasizing on the job, and yet all I can think about is the curve of your lip, the sway of your hips, the way you flush to the tips of your ears when I kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck, the sounds you make every time I do something to bring you pleasure (the sound which seems to happen far too often - I am beginning to suspect you are simply flattering me, but to be honest as long as you make that noise again I do not mind).

How am I supposed to work, when all I can picture is you bent over the desk which I am seated at? How am I supposed to focus I know that when if I step out of my office doors and glance down I might see you sparring, slick with sweat, hair tangled and glorious? How am I supposed to think about anything other than you, at all hours of the day, of all days of the week.

It is cruel. It is _torture_ , but for you I will gladly endure.

Elf.

Mage.

I feel as though I should be more shocked than I am. Perhaps I knew you were coming all along. Perhaps that is why, despite...well, despite everything which I have encountered in my life, despite all the times I have nearly broken beyond repair - and I have come close, closer than you know, closer than I care to tell you lest you worry (and you do worry, far too much, far more than I deserve) - perhaps that is why I have put myself together every time, hastily, sloppily, but together nonetheless.

Because I knew that one day, eventually, you would come and fix me yourself, and this time all the pieces would fit, and all the pieces would stay.


	6. heroically lost, heroically found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have spread my dreams under your feet.  
> Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”  
> \- W.B. Yeats

A lyrium addicted ex-Templar and a Dalish apostate-turned-religious icon walk into a bar.

There’s a joke in there, somewhere.

They are a living juxtaposition, the two of them - him, hard-lined and towering while all at once shrinking deep down inside himself until he is half his size; her, graceful and soft and reaching up, _up_ , head in the Amaranthine Ocean and feet stretching all the way across the Anderfels. His hands are rough and calloused and covered in cuts and blisters and scars; hers, with fresh scrapes and bruises but still, for the most part, soft and smooth as a child's - he forgets that before this she was no leader, no warrior, no soldier, forgets she was a scholar amongst her people, not a weapon, certainly not the tool that they have shaped her to be.

He watches her flex her hands when she’s angry, clench when she’s afraid, clasp when she’s thinking, rub them against the back of her neck when she’s simply...being. They’re small, startlingly small, but there is power in them, too, power beyond the the slash of green that mars freckled skin.

(And they can do other things, other, _wonderful_ things, but he carefully keeps his knowledge of those particular talents locked away in his own mind).

He looks down, glances at his own. Clumsy, inexperienced, worn with age and weather and a life far crueler than the curly-haired blond boy who ran about Honnleath fighting imaginary darkspawn and demons alike could have ever dreamed. They are large, indelicate, uninviting; when she twines her fingers through his own, he does not squeeze as tightly as he might like for fear of crushing her in his grasp.

It is something she does often - hold his hand, that is. About the battlements, through the garden, up the stairs, she always walks a pace, a hair, in front of him, as if pulling him along, guiding his feet down the path which she traces, glancing back once, twice, three times, as if to make sure he still follows, a smile slipping across her face when she sees that he does.

And he _does_. He does not know where he would end up if he were to ever stray.

“The Inquisition won't last forever. What...what will you do, when this is over?”

The words are innocuous, unassuming. She is not accusing, not testing, merely wondering - her mouth is flat, relaxed, but there is a light that shines through her slightly-narrowed eyes that lets him know that whichever answer he gives is one she will accept. It is not a serious question, and she does not need a serious answer; at least, that is what she is trying to convince him of. 

He knows her well enough, know her from the the lightest notes of her laughter to the darkest corners of her mind, knows her well enough to notice her hands - _always_ her hands, for she can carefully school the expressions of her face, but cannot control the unconscious way she grips the table she leans against, nails digging deep into expensive mahogany. He hopes they do not leave a mark; Josephine will have her head.

She clears her throat, nervously, awkwardly, and Cullen realizes he has not yet said a word.

What will he do, when this is over?

He has not, to tell the truth, thought of it before. Surprising, and yet he supposes not at all - it is an unspoken rule that Templars are not permitted to dream, and even if one were more rebellious than he, dimly-lit corridors and a life trapped between towering stone walls are not exactly the best stimulation for one’s imagination. There had been a mage, once, before...before _everything_ , with kind eyes and a kinder smile and a dabbling of freckles across a perfectly upturned nose, and he had almost allowed himself to - 

She burned, along with the rest. He did not dare to think, after that.

Gold eyes trace the lines of her jaw, the curve of her lips, the intricate patterns that adorn her skin, just a few shades lighter, subtle but proud, present but not demanding. Thin fingers drum against the table’s surface - he blinks, straightens his back, focuses his gaze back on her. A heartbeat, only, but she looks impatient. No, not the right word - she looks _scared_.

(It is a relief, somewhat, to know that she is just as affected as he. She is so proficient at playing it calm, collected, but when it is just the two of them in the stillness of the night he knows her heart beats just as loud as his).

She takes a step towards him and his mirrors her movement, instinct guiding him before thought, until she is close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath against his chest - she’s so _small_ , so incredibly small, and then she’s beaming up at him and it’s bright and overwhelming and beautiful and he cannot understand how someone so small can be so unbelievably… _big_.

“So long as we are together,” he begins, and he does not know who reaches out first but suddenly she’s all around him and everywhere at once. He breaths in and smells the forest and the rain and a fresh sheet of parchment; he exhales and a stray curl that has slipped out of it’s tight knot atop her head flutters against his cheek, soft as a kiss. “It hardly matters.” A quiet, unexpected laugh escapes her lips - it was not a test, certainly, but he still thinks his answer must have been the right one.

A hand slips into his own easily, naturally, as if it there is where it is meant to be, and when she squeezes she squeezes his as tightly as he has always wanted to before fear had stopped him in his tracks. His eyes flicker to where they are clasped before glancing up to meet hers once more - she smiles, and he wonders where she might take him to next.

Wherever it may be, he knows he will follow.


	7. the pilgrim soul in you;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He plants himself in her heart like a flag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally it's own stand-alone one-shot, but when I wrote it I actually intended it to go here and was just worried because of it's length. THEN reading it over multiple times I realized how much better it worked as part of this series, because really it is about Iserill and it seemed weird not having it here. Sooooo here it is, again! xx

> WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,  
>  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,  
>  And slowly read, and dream of the soft look  
>  Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 
> 
> How many loved your moments of glad grace,  
>  And loved your beauty with love false or true,  
>  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,  
>  And loved the sorrows of your changing face; 
> 
> And bending down beside the glowing bars,  
>  Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled  
>  And paced upon the mountains overhead  
>  And hid his face amid a crowd of stars."  
>  -W.B. Yeats

She sits atop her throne of iron and velvet and blood, and her feet itch.

This is...this is _not_ what she was meant for. She is no herald of a human god in which she does not even believe, no warrior, no politician, no queen. She sits atop her throne and the people stare at her with something akin to hope in their eyes, something akin to worship, and she is tempted to ask if any of them hear the whispers that float through the castle’s halls, hear the voices of those which they have left behind floating in their mind constantly, obsessively, never leaving them alone - never _leaving_ , never _alone_.

Her leg quivers, toes twitch. 

She wonders what they would do if she ran.

She considers it for a moment, not seriously, not _really_ , but enough to make the idea seem an appealing possibility, before she spots something in the corner of her vision and realizes her traitorous thoughts are no longer her own - Cullen, boring a hole into her mind with eyes burning as hot as the molten gold which they so resemble, and she thinks that he must see it written plain on her face. He knows each corner of her mind, she can see that much clear as day - _Creators_ , how does he always know? - and she stills before nodding, tersely, unwillingly, but in assent. The world sits on bended knee before her, in bated breath as they wait for her to save them all, and it is absurd, _so_ absurd, but she knows that she must. Today will not be the day she flees.

His reply is a smile, slight, understanding, and she hates him for it. Hates him for empathizing with her when he should be cursing her for her cowardice - their brave leader, the only one who can save them, the one in whom they have placed their trust, and she wishes for nothing more than to leave them in her wake, to run until her feet go numb, her legs give out, until Falon’Din casts his haze over her mind and this becomes no more than a faded memory, a foolish dream, a da’len’s nightmare, a ghost.

The smile remains, and she tears her gaze away in shame.

Her empire is built from the bodies of the lost, her throne standing tall, a beacon atop the ever-growing mountain of their corpses, and from where she sits she does not think she likes the view.

…

“I hate this place.”

He doesn’t glance up from the papers that cover his desk, doesn’t even look the slightest bit surprised despite the fact that she had simply barged into his office without asking - and why should she have thought he might be, really, when he has made it clear enough that he knows her thoughts, her intentions, knows _her_ better than she herself ever will. He is shy about it, at the least; his understanding is a quiet one, not pitying but reassuring, kind, and she wishes that she could hate him for it.

They aren’t friends, not in the way that she is with Cassandra or Dorian or Josie. They aren’t friends, but they are… _something_ , and although she convinces herself that she has yet to figure out just what that thing may be, she suspects that the fluttering of her heart at the brush of his fingers or the way she stays, always stays, simply because he asks without asking, because she knows that he needs her - she thinks that, on her end, she may be beginning to get an idea.

His quill makes a few more scratches on the parchment before he glances up at her, eyebrow quirked, head tilted, mouth curled into a frown so that the faint scar which slashes his lip is stretched downwards, rather than scrunched up in the way she so adores when he smiles.

(And it sickens her, sickens her with grief and worry and an immeasurable amount of guilt, that while Thedas is burning before her very eyes she has still found time to burn every inch of him into her memory, as if he is the most important thing in their ill-fated world.

Then the thought strikes her that he might just be the most important thing in _hers_ , and unsurprisingly that makes her shame far worse).

“Where would you rather be?” There is a genuine curiosity in his voice - he knows so much about her, and yet so little at all. It is almost reassuring, in a way, to know that he may not have her quite as pinned as he seems to. “No Inquisition, no ancient darkspawn, no dragon. Where would you like to go to?”

She knows what her answer should be - back to clan Lavellan, to her brother with his smiling eyes and his laugh like chimes in the wind, back to Keeper Deshanna and her teachers and her friends, back to the archer with the quiet promises and the soft warmth who had brought her flowers the day before she had left, back to - 

Except...except she cannot remember the archer’s name. She cannot remember the gentle cadence of her brother’s voice, cannot remember the feel of Deshanna’s time-worn hands as the older woman braided her hair the day she first received her vallaslin. She cannot remember the smells of the forest, the crunch of the leaves beneath bare, weather-hardened feet, cannot remember the faces of the enraptured children to whom she had told bedtime tales by the dying light of the fire.

She cannot remember home. Or, Elgar’nan guide her, she no longer has one.

 _Elgar’nan_. She thinks the All-Father’s name and for the first time in her life, it brings her no comfort. It seems her home is not the only thing which she has lost.

“Everywhere,” she answers him at last, eyes focused on the stone wall behind his head as if, if her stare is firm enough, she might be able to float herself right through, to disappear completely. Not death, not that, just...gone. “Absolutely everywhere, or - or nowhere at all, or both. I could be everywhere, or I could be nowhere at all; ether would do, I suppose, so long as it wasn’t here.” She sighs, shifts her feet, avoids his stare; she knows she isn’t making an ounce of sense, but she doesn’t care anymore. She can’t bring herself to. “I just...I hate it here. Buildings. Walls. I hate feeling trapped.”

Trapped. That was what she was - _trapped_ , not just by stone but by duty, by title, by responsibility. She could run, run to the farthest corners of the farthest lands, and she would still be irrevocably, unconditionally trapped.

She is the first of her clan, she is Lavellan, of the Dalish. A pilgrim, wanderer, nomad - she does not belong between stone walls, on metal thrones, with shoes on her feet and a crown on her head.

She hadn’t noticed him stand until he was directly in front of her, so close that if she shifted herself forward ever so slightly her face would be pressed into the ridiculous feathers that adorned his shoulders, so close that she could bury herself inside him, see if they smelled like him - like parchment and ink and metal and wood, like -

Like comfort. Like quiet. Like something else she cannot yet name.

He doesn’t speak. _Good_. There is nothing to do, nothing to say - she cannot flee, and he cannot pretend as though he would allow her to, and when she turns and leaves his office the two of them will act as though this conversation never happened, ever the soldiers, ever the leaders, ever the queen and her faithful knight.

So instead he grabs her hand, and if his grip is too tight she does not complain, and if her fingers tremble like leaves he does not either.

“Perhaps someday,” After what feels like an hour but must have been no longer than a sliver, a heartbeat, a breath, his voice cuts through the silence as sharp as his sword, and she nearly scolds him for ruining their peace before he continues, cutting the words off dead in their tracks. “When all of this is over, you might show me just what nowhere looks like.” And he smiles, stupid and infuriating and brilliant and bright, and despite herself, she smiles too.

…

She is broken, and she is battered, and she is bruised.

In another time, in another life, she had been beautiful - she had had skin as smooth as silk and the colour of the night’s sky, with freckles dotting it’s surface like stars, and when she had laughed she had laughed with her whole body, and when she had loved she had loved with her whole soul, had woven words together like spun gold and won the hearts of all those she met with no more than a glance. She had been happy, she had been alive, she had been -

She had been _beautiful_.

Now, she looks into the mirror and does not recognize the face that stares back at her.

Quivering hands reach up to tough hollowed cheeks - she stares into the eyes of a dead woman and the dead woman stares back, unblinking, unrelenting, refusing to leave her alone. A thick scar slashes across the left, through the eyebrow, and though they had called her lucky at the time she wishes the dagger had taken the eye with it, wishes the cut had blinded her so that she could not see the ghost which she has become.

Sharp nails pull at the her cheeks, stretch her skin, tug and claw as if her face were a mask which she could remove. She does not want to be here, does not want to be _her_ ; she wants to go back, wants nothing more than to return to the little girl who had spent a childhood in the tops of trees dreaming of flight, to the young woman who inhaled knowledge the way others inhaled oxygen, to the scholar whose main concern was making a good impression on her mentor, her mother, her friend. A stranger wears her face and she hates her, wants her _gone_ , wants her -

From far away she hears a woman sobbing, and hopes that the poor soul is not alone like she.

Hours pass (or is it minutes? seconds? days?) and strong hands are pulling hers away, pinning them to her sides, and her vision is blurred with tears and anger but she knows who it is, she always knows; he is _always_ there, and he holds her close and whispers words in her ear in tongues that she does not understand - or is that her speaking? The sounds all flow into one and she cannot tell, but she can feel his grasp, firm and steady and unyielding, and it does not loosen once.

“ _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade,_ ” and _ah_ , it is his voice she hears after all, not her own, and although she does not believe in the Maker, does not know the words of the Chant, she finds solace in the way he speaks them because it is him who speaks, finds comfort in the soft tickle of his feather pauldrons against her face. “ _For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s light._ ” She breathes him in like she has always wanted to, inhales deep and he smells like parchment and ink and metal and wood, like comfort, like quite, like -

“ _And nothing that he has wrought shall be lost._ ”

He smells like home.

...

He plants himself in her heart like a flag.

When he holds her, he holds her as though the warmth of his hands, the brush of his fingers, the cast of his arms might make her complete once more, his kisses sutures holding all her wounds shut, his words a salve causing all her scars to fade away. He does not hold her with the intent to fix - because she is not a toy, not a doll whose seams can be sewn together good as new; he holds her with the intent to remind her that she is held, and to remind her that he will not let go.

He sleeps, and she traces the lines of his face as if she is trying to commit to memory - her touch is light but his rest is deep, the dreams coming to him less and less often with each passing night, and she thinks that by candlelight he looks so young, so _impossibly_ young for someone who has been through so much and come out the other side, although not at all in one piece.

She forgets, sometimes, that he is broken too.

A smile flickers across his lips, and perhaps he is not as asleep as she thought; or perhaps he _is_ , and he no longer fears the things he may see when he closes his eyes. She brushes her finger down the faint line through his lip and wonders if perhaps he might see her - a smile grows to matches his own, and it is a foolish thought, but she keeps it close anyways.

Her feet itch; she shifts so that her toes are brushing against his calves, so that she can bury his face in the crook of his neck, and it will never cease to amaze her, the way they seem to fit together so perfectly even though she hardly is put together herself, all elbows and jagged edges and pieces that don’t quite match. Her leg quivers, toes twitch, and she -

She stays exactly where she is.

From this - from _him_ \- she will not run away.


	8. parse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes her a while to notice it, but once she does she finds that she cannot stop.

> “there isn't enough of anything  
>  as long as we live. But at intervals  
>  a sweetness appears and, given a chance  
>  prevails.”  
>  \- Raymond Carver

It takes her a while to notice it, but once she does she finds that she cannot stop.

Commander Cullen is exceptionally...large.

It is not _new_ information at the time of her quasi-epiphany - she had made note of his stature almost immediately after they were introduced, more out of self-preservation than anything else, for he is a templar ( _former_ , he says, but she wonders if he really believes it himself) and she is a mage - an elven mage, no less, already at a size disadvantage - and in close quarters the sheer mass of him in comparison to her much more condensed frame is nothing short of disconcerting.

That is not to say that she is frail, or thin, or weak; not even close. She is tightly-coiled muscle under deceptive curves, but that does not change the fact that he has at least two heads of height on her, and probably weighs at least twice as much - her magic could protect her, no doubt, but in physical combat she is not sure she would stand a chance.

(Not that that would ever be an issue between the two of them at all, she would learn soon after their first meeting. Cullen accidentally bumps into her in the corridors and apologizes for thirty minutes straight - she thinks that, of all of her worries as leader of the Inquisition, him intentionally bringing her any harm must be one of the least).

So yes, she is always well aware that Cullen is not a small man, but she is not _aware_ of it until the first time that he holds her in his arms.

At first it’s disconcerting - they’re kissing, and it’s wonderful, and she knows that she should be focusing on the feel of his lips against hers (so long awaited, so long desired, _so_ living up to each one of her expectations), the way his right hand is running through her hair while his left pulls her body closer into his, but all she can think is that he is practically doubled over in order to reach her lips, that his hand spread flat against her back nearly covers the entire span of her, that - and she knows that it is an impossibility, but at the moment it doesn’t _feel_ like one - if he were to try, he could wrap both arms around her twice.

The realization is...she doesn’t know _what_ it is. It should be meaningless, nothing - a size difference is hardly a big deal at all, inconsequential, really, and surely more common than she is making herself believe, but she finds herself steadily becoming more and more fixated upon it despite this knowledge. Does he notice it too? He must, she does not know how he could not, and from that another question arises: does it bother him?

Does he wish that she could meet his kisses without the two of them having to meet halfway, her on the tips of his toes, him curled over in such a way that could by no means be comfortable? Does he wish that when he held her at night, their feet could brush along with their noses? 

Does he mind it? Would he ever tell her if he did?

Silly questions, no doubt.. It is foolish to worry, foolish to think that such a small thing could drive him away, but she loves him so much that she does.

So she watches, observes, and then -

And then, she begins to notice other things.

The way he places his arm atop her head like a rest - horribly annoying for her, but he looks so damn _pleased_ each time he does it, the grin plastered on his face so thoroughly and undeniably content that she cannot find it in her to shrug his arms away. The way he smiles and kisses her forehead constantly, needlessly, sometimes just as a form of greeting. The way he pulls her into his lap and wraps himself around her like a blanket as if it is the most comfortable way to sit in the world, burrowing his head in her neck like a child.

How he holds her at night, tight, firm, but never overwhelming, her face pressed against his chest and his burrowed in the tangled mass of her hair - he breaths her in, long and deep, and cradles her like she is the most important thing in the world. He takes her hand within his own and it’s half the size, but he’s gentle and delicate and soft, far more so than she would have expected from someone who was built more mountain than man.

And it...it _works_. She doesn’t know how, she honestly hasn’t the slightest, idea, but it does.

Each of her edges fits perfectly into his; each jagged corner, each sharp point, each curve fits into each of his own as if it were meant to be there. He holds her, and in his arms she does not feel small, but rather the opposite - she feels _big_ , feels three times his size. She feels _whole_ , and wonders if he feels it, too, when they lie tangled in bed and her bent knees are brushing the tops of his thighs and his hand is pressed against her cheek and he is looking into her eyes, too deep, deeper than she has ever let another look before.

She wonders if he likes what he sees.

He smiles, blinding, bright, _big_ , and she thinks he must.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/Comments are always much appreciated :) <3


End file.
